The date that didn't sing

Editor’s note: Today The Whig introduces a new dating and lifestyle column by Claire Grady-Smith. Grady-Smith has spent much of her life in the Limestone City but has also lived in Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal. When she’s not doing Bikram Yoga, she’s producing events in town. Her column will appear every fourth Saturday on the Life section front.

It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting in the top level of The Toucan — that weird upper region that nobody goes to unless they want a serious conversation. I’m trying to focus on what my date is saying. We’ve only just met and RustyMeyer (his online moniker) is asking me why I’m living in Kingston, "of all places?" RM is from Toronto, and he’s telling me how great Ossington Avenue is. Amazing bistros have been popping up, he’s saying, with the best local terroir for their produce and meats, and there’s a street artist who plays jazz cello further up toward Bloor.

"We have a street artist who plays violin," I think. "He’s been sitting outside the dollar store for a decade and he still can’t hit a note … so that’s kinda like jazz."

I don’t want to talk about his life in Toronto or about how small Kingston is. I don’t want to tell him my life story, most of which has been spent in this city he so clearly despises. I don’t want to talk at all, actually. I’m listening to the faint chords of Warmer wafting up from the basement level — so far just a nasal guitar twang above the pop music. The band is opening for The Huaraches, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pick our date spot specifically so I could catch these Kingston bands.

The Huaraches were formed in 2011 and they get better every time I see them. Inspired equally by the traditions of Jamaican ska and Californian surf-punk, the band has the mad-clown sounds of a Mariachi band in a Mexican crime flick. I tried listening to them once in my apartment, but the experience just wasn’t the same, like throwing on a CD of the Grateful Dead in the ’90s. Some bands are just live bands. You need to see the full effect of The Huaraches in their sunglasses and grease-monkey suits, the sweat glistening on the bare chests of their mask-wearing dancers. You need to see lead guitarist Adam Weave lose it at the show’s climax and rub the bridge of his Fender Jazzmaster roughly against his amp, allowing his stage equipment to play the cacophonous solo.

I think about all this as I listen to my date talk about how much he hates Kingston. It’s so small and nothing ever happens here. I decide at that moment that I don’t want to see him again. I lead him outside, give him a quick hug, and say it was nice to meet him. Feeling somewhat cowardly, I circle the block and go right back to the basement of The Toucan.

Soon it’s completely dark except for the spots trained on the stage. The openers have finished their set and a reverential quiet sets in. At the sound of the first muscular chords, The Huaraches’ dancers begin shaking and shimmying like street performers, rousing whoops and cries from the audience. There is a woman in her late fifties in bright red pumps gyrating down to the floor, smiling with her eyes closed. Sexy, queer hipsters in ironic T’s smirk sideways at each other and nod their heads to the music. In front of me a teenager in a hockey jersey stands with his jaw hanging open, staring around him as if he’s been unexpectedly caught up in a lascivious parade.

And then there’s me, my arms held high as the band calls upon us to clap in time to the beat: one, one-two, one, one-two…I thought about my date, and about shows I’ve seen in the basement of The Drake in Toronto. Clusters of well-heeled Torontonians standing stiffly, gauging the value of each other’s kicks. Nobody was dancing, everyone was young, and I was the only one smiling and having a good time. I feel elated to be in the dank-smelling lower level of this Ktown institution. Keep your Queen West with its overpriced diners, perpetual streetcar commutes, and imported furniture stores. This is Kingston, where everyone’s invited to the party.

Claire Grady-Smith is a freelance writer, cultural curator (CGS Productions) and co-producer of Garrula: A Storytelling Event and Podcast (garrula.ca) and will be going to see the Huaraches at The Toucan again on June 10.